Before the accident, he’d lived as an architect and builder of follies for wealthy estates. Always a few days in Kent, gone the next. That Lord Nathaniel earned his coin made him an interesting varietal in Richland’s hothouse of privilege. Women flirted with him, and he’d smile back with unfailing politeness because his course was set. He was going to make his way in the world before he married.
As the obscure second son, he’d stride through the halls lost in thought, rolled-up design plans tucked under his thickly muscled arm, his boot prints leaving bits of dirt behind him. Such concentration.
A delicate swallow followed that thought.
“Is your gait tentative because of your leg, Your Grace? Or the new shoes?”
A smile cracked his profile. “I’m pretending my discomfort doesn’t exist.” His chuckle was endearing. “Apparently without success.”
Another stone step was breached, then a second, and a third. They made fine work of avoiding eye contact on their promenade.
“You’re not answering me, Your Grace.”
A ducal brow arched in her side vision. She was over-bold, but faint hearts never won the day.
“You won’t allow me to suffer in silence?”
“Not when I’m tasked with healing you.”
His arm flexed under her fingertips. The duke was equal parts quiet and certain. Acknowledging the extent of his pain was tantamount to admitting weakness…of yielding to a woman.
No man relished that. Well, some did privately.
“Both the shoes and my leg bother me,” he said with clipped efficiency. “Thank you for noticing.”
“I’ve noticed a good many things about you, Your Grace.”
“Regale me, Mrs. Chatham. What have you observed?” His baritone was smooth as simmering chocolate on a lazy morning.
They passed butterflies flittering over the dowager’s roses, and two orange tabby cats lolling in the sun, stretching with satisfaction.
The duke invited discourse.
How tempting.
“I’ve observed your preference for boots over buckle shoes. You like your coats in unembellished shades of blue, brown, or green. Never black. You’re given to brooding when a design does not materialize as planned.” She grinned, mostly for her own pleasure. “And you have a penchant for steak, chops, and mutton stew.”
“I sound a trifle boring.”
“I prefer to call it quietly fascinating.”
The duke hummed thoughtfully. “That would be a first.”
The world abounded with rogues. An intelligent man, handsome and appealing in character and visage, was a rare find for women of her ilk. How she came upon that nugget of wisdom would not be a topic of conversation. Ever.
Stoic footmen flung open the doors to the formal salon. Once inside, their footfalls were muffled by densely piled carpet. Landscape paintings by Dutch artists she couldn’t name trimmed one wall. A bank of floral arrangements and marble busts lined another. This room was predictable. Overdone and meant to impress like so many of the peerage. The same couldn’t be said of Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland, which was why he intrigued her.
When they reached the east wing stairs, she let go of his arm. The subtle loss left her empty. She craved connection with him. Grabbing a handful of skirts and the cold, hard banister was her consolation with the duke climbing the stairs beside her.
“Whatever this remedy of yours is, Mrs. Chatham, I want a minimum of fussing.”
“This week has filled me to the brim with feminine interest.”
“Perhaps not the right kind?”
His head turned sharply toward her. Nostrils flaring and posture erect, the duke was imposing, a dragon ready to breathe fire on the unfortunate maiden who entered his lair.
But she was no maiden.
Carnal want flashed in his eyes, there and gone. “Since I am about to surrender to your tender mercies, I shall take the high road and hold my tongue.”
She laughed, enjoying his mild censure. “It’d be better if you loosened it, Your Grace.”
A male grunt was his answer. Of all the Richland men, Lord Nathaniel was known for his abiding honor.
Their lineage bequeathed him with a blade-straight nose and defining jaw, but his hair was a dark auburn among a family of gingers to reddish-blonds. The duke’s eyes were his most distinct feature, a penetrating silver-gray when his brothers had variants of blue.
At present, his stormy gaze narrowed on her.
